


Wolves

by bklt



Category: Wynonna Earp (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Rated E for later chapters, kind of?, two people who don't know how to handle emotions properly lmao!!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-19
Updated: 2020-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:47:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23208751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bklt/pseuds/bklt
Summary: “You keep saying all this shit about how awful you are. That you’re selfish and take and—that’s not true. I needed someone.”Mercedes shrugged. “And it was you.”Wynonna and Mercedes' lives went two different directions; Mercedes in her last year of university in the big city, with Wynonna still stuck in Purgatory. But Wynonna has a plan to finally leave everything behind and leave her curse for good.These are their last days together. But Mercedes doesn't know that.
Relationships: Wynonna Earp/Mercedes Gardner
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Wolves

The sun was rising in the east when the world wasn’t awake yet, a dreamlike liminality all viewed from the inside of a steel and glass bus shelter. The meager fluorescent light burned above her, too artificially white against the deep-ink of the sky, the emerging oranges and pinks. The bite of winter was the only thing that reminded Wynonna she was alive, a bone-chilling cold that felt like an out of body experience. She fiddled with her black iPod, scuffed to shit and screen cracked to almost illegibility. It was of the utmost importance to have the perfect travelling playlist for something like this. Looking out of frost glazed bus windows deserved its own soundtrack, where the music would hit on cue when the city came into view, the realized sun raging through glass skyscrapers and reflecting hard enough to hurt her eyes in its splendour.

Buses were terrible. A moving capsule that existed in its own time and space. Yet there was something about the apathetic passengers, half-awake and eyes lidded with sleep, where no one said shit if they fell asleep on their seatmate’s shoulder, or ate food that permeated the sacred space with Subway oregano and cheese bread. A mutual agreement that no one would see each other. Travel was non-existence in motion.

Wynonna flipped her phone open; almost six. The bus should’ve been here by now.

Waiting was a tortuous game. Nothing took the edge off of anticipation, where every bus pulling in was a hope shattered when the amber lights scrolled a destination that wasn’t hers, places she’d only vaguely heard of. Nothing to do but curate a playlist to force feelings she couldn’t conjure.

The Greyhound pulled in twenty minutes late, the smell of diesel mixing with crisp winter air. The drivers switched out as passengers lined up like zombies, giving their tickets or flashing their phones at the already bored driver. If Wynonna would have driven to the city she could. To quote Gus; “ _Like hell I’m gonna let you use my truck.”_ God. Wynonna hated buses.

She stepped inside and threw her bag against the window, leaning on it as a pillow as she stared out the glass, eager to get moving. Least there weren’t a lot of people. Never was. Either those with shit to do in the city could drive themselves or they were landlocked in Purgatory, where nothing came or went. After all, what was the point in visiting?

Mercedes. She was the former. It was her last semester of university, and Wynonna knew this visit was to be the last, if she had to be perfectly realistically about it. In the year since Wynonna visited they’d drifted apart; Mercedes, in post secondary with non-dumbass Purgatorians, good parties, and the entirety of university culture that fit Mercedes like an expensive leather glove. That left Wynonna, still in the nowhere that was Purgatory, who barely graduated high school. Multiple stints in jail tended to do that. As for her options…

Wynonna settled further into her seat when the bus honked and began to pull out of the only terminal in Purgatory. Options. Even with her record closed it didn’t magically make everyone forget who she was. Reviled everywhere, no matter what she did. At some point she stopped trying. Why bother?

She thumbed through her iPod again. This wasn’t the right soundtrack.

What even was the appropriate exit music anyways? Not just for the present but for what was to come, a secret she’d been nurturing to maturity so it festered into a bilious ball, a masochistic sort of pain she almost revelled in being tortured in. A decision she’d made when he didn’t attend her high school graduation (because why the fuck would she walk across a stage in front of people who treated her like shit, much less shake their hands), when she said goodbye to Mercedes the night before she left for university. Everything Wynonna did now was in service to a single thought:

Leave.

It’d be another bus ride like this, to the airport with every worldly possession packed into a suitcase, onto somewhere that wasn’t here. Anywhere had to be better. Maybe she could even _have_ worldly possessions for once, actual things that couldn’t easily be shoved into a rolling suitcase, enough that she’d actually have to decide what to take and leave behind. 

When they passed by the open fields that should’ve been her land, Wynonna wondered what she would listen to when that day arrived.

* * *

Out of the many things Wynonna ribbed Mercedes for, it was the fact she couldn’t stand when things were messy. She was in the middle of arranging her items in her pristine able-to-eat-off-the-floor apartment, grateful she had no roommates to clean up after or warn of an invited guest. Having rich folks had its perks. Privilege—something she had in spades, a point hammered down in her various sociology electives. Her own apartment, a free ride through school, bills all paid for so she wouldn’t have to hold a part time job.

“ _It’s so you can focus on school, not party,”_ her father reminded her. But what was the point of going to university in a big city if he wasn’t going to meet people? So she promptly disobeyed and went to almost every party she was invited to. Her marks hadn’t even suffered, and her parents were none the wiser. As it turned out, Mercedes was simply _good_ at school, the performance of academia. Every professor had something they wanted and Mercedes was a savant in knowing how to cater to each one. She knew exactly how to formulate everything, what to write in whatever bullshit essa she wrote while half-drunk from the night before. Challenge was something MErcedes met with a crack of the knuckles and an ambitious smirk. Even more, she liked seeing marks come back in high eighties or nineties when she didn’t think she deserved it, like she played the system somehow. Again: being good at school was merely skill and privilege.

Mercedes frowned when she began to adjust her assortment of tequila bottles on her dark brown Ikea shelf. What did she have to show off to Wynonna for? She’d seen Mercedes in all shades imaginable, and Wynonna could see through artifice better than Mercedes could play at school. This wouldn’t convince Wynonna of anything—whatever Mercedes was trying to be convincing about—and least of all herself. It all pathetically screamed, unconvincingly, _I’m having fun, I’m living life, I have my easy silver-platter handed existence under the appropriate amount of control._

Yeah. Wynonna was never going to fall for this. Her iPhone buzzed.

_eta 15_

Suddenly Mercedes was nervous—or something closer to dread-filled, which felt inappropriate and incorrect given everything. Seeing Wynonna was something she looked forward to. She made everything better now matter how much time passed between them. But it was the weight of hope that bit at her, that things would go exactly as envisioned, like it should all be more momentous than how Mercedes felt at the present. She’d never been afraid of Wynonna even when the world told her too. Mercedes was not about to start now.

Punctuality; another thing Wynonna teased Mercedes about. Some things never changed, and soon Mercedes was pulling into the university bus terminal as Wynonna’s Greyhound arrived. Mercedes tapped her thumb on the steering wheel and turned the radio off, then back on again. Attentively she watched each passenger leave the bus, waiting for long chestnut hair and that signature leather jacket that wouldn’t be helpful of Canadian winter.

The hair was the same, at least. The leather jacket had been swapped for a practical bomber, her big headphones around her neck and duffle bag slung around her chest. Mercedes held up her hand as Wynonna scanned the road.

They both smiled.

* * *

It was almost a decade ago, when Mercedes’ parents were out of town. Wynonna had just been released from her first visit to juvie, the smell of too many people a little too familiar from where she just escaped. A party; not Mercedes’ first and certainly not Wynonna’s. Mercedes held her solo cup close, knowing full well to keep her drink in sight, to not put it down for a second. The couch was decaying and rough, Mercedes idly pulling at the rough strands of fabric to make a hole bigger, breathing in the same single air molecule everyone else was. Stuffy. The thick wood paneling and shag carpeting didn’t help, the overcrowded room sending her to drunk lethargy. This wasn’t fun.

Wynonna screwed the metal cap off of her vodka and poured it over her gashed forearm with a wince and a shot. Fighting with rings was dirty. Dumbass guys with their dumbass fucking huge rings. Though she supposed she’d been dirtier, or at least had the option, thinking idly of the switchblade bumping against her chest. Because if there was one nugget of wisdom daddy dearest gave, or the only piece, really, it was that the threat of violence was often enough and just as horrifying.

Feeling eyes slicing the back of her neck, she turned around.

“What the fuck?” 

Mercedes saw Wynonna wheel at her voice, eyes burning more than the sting of alcohol she’d casually dumped over her arm. Smile wide and dangerous, wolfish, Wynonna prowled over to Mercedes.

“Problem, Gardner?”

The first words said and heard from each other for a long while; in fact, Mercedes could get it down to the day. All she had to do was subtract now and the date of Willa’s funeral. Remembering what she said last was easy.

_I’m sorry for your loss._

Which to Wynonna sounded too practiced and formal coming from a twelve year old’s mouth. Platitudes aren’t meant to come from children. Children weren’t supposed to know what it was like to lose a friend.

Wynonna vaguely remembered Mercedes. All she knew about her was from Willa, who never brought anyone home because—well. Ha. Best not to.

“There’s better ways to do that,” Mercedes said matter-of-factly. “Maybe one that doesn’t involve getting blood and vodka all over the carpet?”

Wynonna narrowed her eyes. “What? Fuck off.”

“You were the one who came over.”

“You were the one staring at me.”

“Uh, yeah, ‘cause you’re doing weird as hell shit?”

Wynonna dismissed Mercedes with an eye roll. “Whatever. Your name’s a fucking car, for fuck’s sake.”

“Wow,” Mercedes laughed. Wynonna almost shrank. It wasn’t the laugh of someone pretending they weren’t offended—it was one of a person truly unbothered, fantastically gleeful at the prospect of being victorious about something, a metaphorical cracking of the knuckles. “Haven’t heard that one before. Got more while you’re at it?”

Maybe Wynonna shouldn’t have used flavoured vodka for the cut. It felt thick and wrong. Sticky in the wrong way. “Look in a mirror,” she growled.

“Better.” Mercedes took a drink from her red cup and threw her arm over the armrest. Her eyes were drawn back to Wynonna’s arm. “Okay, Jesus, can you do something about that?”

“Don’t want blood on my jacket,” Wynonna said, swiping at her nose with her thumb. Which was absolutely fucking stupid, considering it was a black leather jacket. It was more...she preferred it on her arm. Or to look at it. Or something.

Mercedes looked Wynonna up and down. “A jacket you probably stole.”

“Like you give a shit. Didn’t you steal a six pack from the beer store? That lipstick too, right? The one you’re wearing?”

“And?”

“And you just do it—spoiled-ass rich bitch—you just do it ‘cause you’re bored. You’re fucking _boring._ ”

That one got to Mercedes. She was good at hiding it, but Wynonna caught the slightest twitch on Mercedes’ stolen-red-lipstick lips. A confirmed hit. By this point Wynonna barely remembered what she was trying to win anyways. All she knew was that she absolutely had to.

Mercedes recovered. “Does trying to fight me fill how empty you feel? _Can_ you even feel anything?”

To Mercedes’ surprise, Wynonna didn’t hit back literally or figuratively, but loosened her jaw out of its lock, the green light in her eyes extinguished and replaced with something else.

“Fuck you.” A resignation, a prone animal ready for the killing blow of crushing teeth.

There was something, a secret flash of something buried, so quick Mercedes didn’t know if it was Wynonna she was seeing or herself. Because it always took one to know one. Because Mercedes was just as lifeless and just as empty. 

“It was an LCBO,” Mercedes said finally, quietly.

“With…”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

Mercedes took a drink. “For what it’s worth, it was her idea. I was too chickenshit.” 

“Ha. Yeah. That sounds like her.” Wynonna went to scratch at her arm, stopping just short when she remembered that it was still bleeding out. 

“Okay, that’s gross. C’mon.” Mercedes broke the tension, grabbing at the collar of Wynonna’s jacket and pulling her up the stairs.

“What-”

“I’m showing you to the bathroom ‘cause you apparently don’t know where it is.”

“I don’t actually, thanks. Also, the vodka was right there, sooo…”

“And you chose birthday cake flavour? That’s what you went with?”

“I just grabbed whatever was easiest,” Wynonna said above the din, not caring who heard her. “Not my first choice.” 

Mercedes didn’t loosen her grip on Wynonna’s jacket until they were in the upstairs washroom, the thin wooden door taking a few pushes to close properly. It did the job of muffling the sound well enough that Wynonna could hear wind in her ears, adjusting to the sudden lack of noise.

She watched as Mercedes opened cabinets and fished around, a small “ah” of satisfaction when she found a brown bottle of peroxide. She wordlessly took Wynonna’s arm and positioned it over the pink porcelain sink.

“Shit!” Wynonna hissed, the peroxide stinging and bubbling at the contact. “A little warning?” 

“Oops.” Mercedes released Wynonna’s arm and found a box of bandaids, small and Spider-Man themed and not really functional for how long the gash was on Wynonna’s arm. She applied them as best as she could, Wynonna stock-still and quiet, staring down at the old hair-covered bathroom tile.

“Best I could do,” Mercedes said. Wynonna’s arm fell from her hand like a stone, the eldest living Earp nodding dazelike.

“You good?” Mercedes asked, sitting on the counter when she saw Wynonna’s blank expression.

“Hey uh…” Wynonna gently pressed down on the patchwork of bandages, a dull satisfying ache when she pressed down. It felt good on her bones. “I was pretty shitty. Turns out you’re kinda okay.”

Though Wynonna didn’t know why she assumed otherwise. If Willa liked Mercedes, she was bound to as well. It was funny; two years seemed long and not long enough. That she still looked up to her big sister, cared what she thought of people. 

Mercedes nodded at Wynonna’s apology-but-sort-of-not-apology. It wasn’t devoid of sincerity however, the sort of hidden self-spite wrought from an existence of living in guilt.

“Same. How ‘bout we just blame the booze?”

Wynonna rotated her forearm back and forth to get a better look at the mosaic of Spider-Mans (Spider-Men?) patterning her bandaids. She was reticent to blame anything on alcohol, despite her tendency to do so anyways. Too many things in her life were blamed on alcohol. Whiskey, specifically.

A pounding of fists on the door interrupted Wynonna before she could reply.

* * *

Purgatory might’ve been hell—or quite literally in between—but university cities were its own special brand, busy, crowded and constantly moving. Students, as it turned out, loved to cross the road without looking, Mercedes slamming the breaks and swearing loudly. The students gave disinterested glances at the car, unaffected by their near demise. Made sense, Wynonna supposed. What’s the worst that could’ve happened? They died?

The two of them hadn’t spoken much since Wynonna shoved her bag by her feet and turned the seat warmer on. The air was tense when it shouldn’t have been, the familiar, comfortable quiet between them suspiciously absent. There was a compulsion to break the silence or otherwise fill it, Wynonna turning on the radio and Mercedes wincing slightly at the sudden noise.

“I can turn it off.”

Mercedes pushed her horn rimmed glasses up. When did she get those? “S’cool. You can put on your music if you want.”

A call for another soundtrack. Wynonna shook her head. “I’m good. And yo—glasses?”

“Oh.” Mercedes absently pushed them up again. “Yeah. Didn’t have time to put my contacts in.”

“Didn’t even know you had them.”

“Surprise, I guess?”

This was all turning bizarrely aggressive. Wynonna retreated deeper into her seat and crossed her arms. “Looks good.”

Silence again, and not in a good way. Wynonna pretended to be interested in the hordes of students ambling on the sidewalks, or the tall buildings reaching up higher than anything in Purgatory. But it was hard to be interested when everything felt so stifling in the car, the radio playing a song she’d done a routine to before.

“You hungry?” Mercedes offered. “We can hit a McDicks before we get to my place.”

Huh. Wynonna didn’t realize she was hungry until Mercedes mentioned it. “Yeah, actually. I’m starving.” 

* * *

Maybe going to McDonald’s on a Thursday morning was a bad idea. It was absolutely crowded, Wynonna and Mercedes awkwardly squeezing in line to look at the menu, Wynonna overwhelmed by her options while Mercedes was trying to think of an item she’d actually feel like eating. When Wynonna dug into her coat to retrieve her wallet, Mercedes pressed on Wynonna’s forearm.

“Bitch, you know you don’t have to pay for anything when you’re with me.”

There was a brief resistance against Mercedes’ palm, Wynonna unsure of what to make of the offer. She relaxed.

“Okay sugar mama, calm down.”

Mercedes rolled her eyes. “Combo?”

“Yeah with-”

“A large black coffee.”

An easy thing to remember. Mostly because black coffee drinkers never let anyone forget it. Judging by Wynonna’s smirk, it was the small things that were sometimes the most monolithic.

Mercedes ordered from the stressed student behind the till, Wynonna’s Bacon McMuffin combo and Mercedes’ hashbrown. She wasn’t feeling particularly hungry, whether it be nerves or the pattern that’d been forming. 

They sat in a far away booth to get away from the cluster of rushed students in the lobby, Wynonna tearing into the yellow wrapper and chomping at her food before she could remove her coat and sit down.

“Still at Pussy Willows?”

“Mm,” Wynonna said around her food.

“I’m surprised you can stand it for that long.”

“Not like I got a lot of options, Mer.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s a joyride. _Aphrodite._ ”

Wynonna shrugged and tore a piece off her hashbrown. “Honestly? It’s not that bad. Customers suck, boss sucks, pay sucks. Sounds like a regular job to me.”

Couldn’t argue with that. 

“Plus, it keeps me jacked as hell.” Reaching across the table, Wynonna curled her arm and flexed, Mercedes feeling at the sizable bicep.

“Damn girl! Okay! No kidding,” Mercedes said, genuinely impressed. Maybe she should consider working out.

Wynonna raised an eyebrow suggestively behind her coffee cup, not caring, as per usual, if it was scalding hot. Mercedes looked at her untouched food with disinterest. “So, what’s next then?”

“Dunno.” Wynonna peeled away the sticker on her cup and added it to her coffee card. One away from a free coffee.

“When I move out east, maybe…”

“We’d kill each other by the second week. You’d get mad if I didn’t do the dishes or some fuckery.” 

“Ha. Yeah. You’re right.” Where the hell did that offer come from? They hadn’t seen each other in a year and spoken only occasionally, and here she was already offering for Wynonna to live with her. It was disingenuous of course, something she said because she knew it’d be turned down. An empty sentiment. 

“School okay?” Wynonna asked, once again reaching for her coffee.

“It is what it is. Kinda glad I’m done soon.”

“Bullshit. You love university.”

“Love’s a bit strong.”

“Okay, so you reaaally enjoy school,” Wynonna said in a mocking tone.

“Okay, and?” 

“Nothing. Just...caj conversation.” She crumpled her wrapper. “Why real estate? Like, selling houses seems random.”

“What’re you, my relatives?”

“Jeez.”

Removing her glasses, Mercedes rubbed at her eyes like they were some sort of reset button he could press to completely wipe away the last hour. “Sorry. You have nooo idea how many times I hear literally everything you just asked me.”

“Yeah. True.” Wynonna finally acknowledged her hashbrown. “Wouldn’t be a Wynonna-Mercedes hangout if we didn’t bitch a little.”

Wynonna’s eyes narrowed. “Something up?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve lost-” Wynonna frowned. “Mer…”

“What?”

“You’re not.” 

“I’m not _what_ , man?”

“Eating.”

“What am I doing right now?” Mercedes practically unhinged her jaw to demonstrate how big of a bite she was taking. Like an overdramatic toddler. Or maybe a snake.

“Don’t be weird. You know what I mean.”

Mercedes wiped her greasy hand on a brown napkin. “Not on purpose. I dunno dog, I just forget.”

“Why?”

“The fuck you mean why? I’m just not hungry so I forget. I’m busy.”

Again Wynonna’s eyes narrowed, Mercedes feeling like a splattered bug under a microscope. “Addy? That shit makes me forget food exists.”

“When I gotta crunch, but I’m not hooked or anything.”

Hypothesis proven, Wynonna crossed her arm with a small smirk of triumph. “You’re depressed as shit aren’t you?”

Mercedes scraped her teeth together. “Who isn’t? What’s there to not be depressed about?”

“In your case? A lot. Well, maybe. I don’t know everything. Parental disinterest and being like, second mom to your shitty siblings?”

“What the hell?”

“C’mon, Mer. I’m kidding. You’re right—who isn’t kinda fucked up?” Wynonna said. “Doesn’t your school have shrinks on deck? In your tuition? Or your folks could probably set you up with a real expensive one.”

In theory. Her parents didn’t really believe in that sort of thing. Or, they did, but not when it applied to Mercedes and her siblings—which was pretty irresponsible, considering Mercedes was positive the whole family was sad as fuck. Her mom and dad distracted themselves with work, Tucker did...whatever Tucker did, and Beth never left the house. But mental illness? No. Not them. Their lives were too good for that, after all. 

“I’m already seeing someone,” Mercedes mumbled.

“Oh?”

“My parents don’t know.”

“That...tracks, actually.” Wynonna said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. I thought me complaining would be kinda rude.”

“What, compared to me?”

Exactly that. It felt trivial to complain about anything in her life. Perhaps it was that same triviality that bore a hole where feelings should’ve poured from, a great nothingness of the soul, or whatever. Boredom, constant and grating and painfully vacant. But how could she be bored—how _dare_ she be bored? So no, she didn’t exactly leap at the prospect of telling Wynonna how depressed she was about literally nothing.

Wynonna looked off to the black and white painted wall beside her. “Nah. If everyone compared themselves to me then no one would see anyone.”

“I’m surprised you’re not giving me more shit.”

“What? You seeing a therapist?”

“You hated your shrinks.”

“That’s-” Wynonna scrunched her nose in distaste, “It’s different. Prison and ward psychs aren’t exactly awesome. It’s all about ticking a box and moving you through it as quick as possible. Oh, yeah, and also not giving a shit.”

There wasn’t much Mercedes knew about Wynonna’s various runs through various institutions. Not like Wynonna was ever to share her experience. What Mercedes did know was it was lonely and terrifying as hell with other people in their own personal lonely hells, a scared mess of people crushed together away from society. It was like addiction, Wynonna told her. Get a bunch of people with a mutual problem in one room and suddenly everyone had a hookup, new and exciting ways to go deeper into the mire they were already in. 

_“Making a bunch of people with no coping skills interact? Yeah, no, no one’s coming out of that in one piece.”_

“You’d think if that was your job you’d have, like, a base level of compassion for the people you see.”

Wynonna shook her head with the weight of experience, an age of pondering such things. “Probably get tired of it after a while. Burn out. Maybe they’re power tripping and think it’s this fucked up secret duty to fix people. I don’t know.” Wynonna sighed. “Look, point is, I’m not gonna be weird about you seeing someone, that’d be all kinds of fucked. I’m...a special case.”

“Special case” had too many layers to sift through, the most loaded grouping of words. Wynonna didn’t talk about that night anymore save for vagaries and allusion. No more talk of demons in the night; whispers of how well her meds must be working. It wasn’t the meds; Mercedes knew that Wynonna didn’t take them, Wynonna mumbling something about how they weren’t the right kind, that they were never going to work. The avoidance of the subject was out of defeat. The quiet resignation.

But for all of her vagueness, Mercedes knew Wynonna believed what happened to her family that night. All those panicked dreams, or when she got so drunk she said things Mercedes pretended to forget. Monsters weren’t real. But for all she knew Wynonna—which was to say, better than herself—she believed in it too, no matter how illogical it was.

Mercedes shoved the rest of the hashbrown into her mouth. Why was eating such a chore?

* * *

There wasn’t a ceiling when Wynonna gasped awake. Completely dark and directionless as space, darker than the night she dreamt of. Breathing was an impossible task, each struggled gulp of air only furthering the vertigo in her lungs. Where was this?

The bed rustled beside her. Shit. She was breathing too loudly. Who was this?

“Wyn?”

Mercedes. Wynonna’s brain begged her body to lay back down and pretend this all wasn’t happening. But she couldn’t stop herself from doubling over, the exact opposite of the intended direction, hands wrapping around the back of her head like she could contain the white noise from leaking out.

“Hey, whoa,” Mercedes said softly, kicking her blanket off to the side and placing her hand on Wynonna’s knee, a tentative touch of uncertainty.

“Don’t.” 

It was all Wynonna could manage, her voice a pathetic and panicked writhing yell. Mercedes lifted her hand like she’d touched fire, an uneasy stillness Wynonna could feel emanating from her. She didn’t want Mercedes’ hand to leave but didn’t want it either, too smoothing but needing to feel something present. Here; not four years in the past.

“What can I do?” Mercedes said, trying to keep her voice from betraying how frantic she was. _Nothing_ , Wynonna wanted to say. _Nothing is going to take this away._

“Wyn,” Mercedes whispered, a gentle press on Wynonna’s back. “It was just a dream-”

“It happened,” Wynonna hissed, hating how her voice cracked. “It happened.”

She could hear the air leaving Mercedes’ lungs in one fell swoop. Realization; the last thing Wynonna wanted from her. ANd it hung thick in the air Wynonna scrambled to catch, breathing in the multitude of Mercedes’ emotions.

“It’s over,” Mercedes tried. “You’re here. You’re not-” Mercedes struggled with the words. “You’re here. Right now.”

Here. In Mercedes’ house, her dark room, her bed, the hand on her back was real and it was now. No demons kicking down the door, eyes and skin cracked with Hell, no glass shattering as Willa screamed. No gunshot that rang as daddy’s body fell leaden-heavy like the gun in her palms as they laughed and-

“What can I do?” Mercedes tried again, her hand rubbing circular motions on Wynonna’s back. Right. Here. This was here. Dark room, soft bed, hands real.

“Water.”

The door opened, the tiny nightlight in the hall burning Wynonna’s eyes, making her wish she could crawl back into the thick darkness to hide or die or otherwise embrace a state of nonexistence. Hide away and be safe or welcome the fear of it finding her.

It would be unfortunate to die here, in Mercedes’ room and not in a prison cot or makeshift bed of a stranger’s house she hated so much it chewed at her gums, the soft glow of the hallway illuminating the familiar bright floral pattern of the comforter. The dresser. The keys to Mercedes’ car glinting. The long mirror reflecting her hunched form. It was safer here; than what, Wynonna didn’t know. An unobtainable abstraction of safety beyond comprehension.

Shutting the door, Mercedes tapped on the base of her lamp to the lowest setting so she could see where she was going, offering the big green plastic cup to Wynonna, who took it gratefully. Cold water felt so good in her dried, burning throat, sobering her and making her breaths even, linear. Mercedes picked at her cuticles. 

“Thanks.” Wynonna handed her empty cup to Mercedes to put on the night table. Mercedes forced the smallest of smiles, still picking at her skin. What does someone say after something like this?

“Sorry,” Wynonna mumbled. “That was a bummer, huh?”

Mercedes’ smile widened to something that could’ve been mistaken for pity. But that wasn’t quite it; there was a warmth to it, a quiet caring in the way her eyes softened. “Nah, man. All good.”

She didn’t drag it out more than needed—or, if Wynonna was being honest, more than Wynonna was willing to confront. It was beyond talking about. How does one, exactly, begin to explain monsters?

“You wanna watch something?” Mercedes said, knowing Wynonna wasn’t particularly excited to go back to sleep again. Wynonna nodded, untensing her back and letting herself fall onto the bed.

“What’re you up for?” Mercedes asked, taking her laptop and booting it up. 

Wynonna shrugged. Didn’t matter. As long as it was something else. As long as it was here.

* * *

“Nice digs Gardner!”

Mercedes dropped her keys onto the kitchen counter, Wynonna waltzing into the apartment behind her like an ambassador observing their lodgings. Neck craned, Wynonna scanned her surroundings in a way that felt like an appraisal, Mercedes holding her breath to see what Wynonna thought, if she passed inspection on some secret rubric only Wynonna knew.

“Yeah. I try,” said Mercedes. To her dismay, Wynonna took to perusing the collection of empty liquor bottles, reading the labels with curiosity. 

“Someone’s been doing a lot of partying.”

“When in Rome,” Mercedes said with false cheer. Wynonna’s observation felt accusatory when Mercedes knew that couldn’t possibly be true. Perhaps it was because of how carefully Mercedes had lined the bottles, displaying whatever symbolism she was going for. She still hadn’t figured out what she was trying to prove; and Wynonna pointing it out felt like she’d been exposed.

“No roommates?” Wynonna asked.

“Nope. Just me. Thank god.” In Mercedes’ first year of university, she’d tried the old suggestion of living in residence for a semester or two, the hope being she’d meet people and immerse herself. It worked, sure, but she absolutely could not stand having to share her space with other people. The messes she passive-aggressively or plain aggressive-aggressively she had to look after, the way her roommates got made if she had someone over when they weren’t even _there_ , not being able to cook in a kitchen...no. It was better to be alone.

Wynonna took to walking down the hallway, peeking in the different mostly empty rooms until she came upon the bedroom, nosediving into the bed and nestling her head in an overstuffed pillow with a deep sigh.

“Hoooly shit.”

“Comfy?” 

Fluffing the pillow further, Wynonna tucked her arms under it and closed her eyes dramatically. “I wouldn’t get anything done if I had a bed like this. I’d nap all the time.” Flipping onto her back, she patted the empty spot beside her, already owning the bed like it belonged to her. “Wanna watch something?”

Mercedes realized she hadn’t stepped into her own room. Wynonna owned any space she was in, and crossing the threshold almost seemed like an intrusion. Grabbing her Macbook from the charger, she sat cross-legged beside Wynonna and flipped it open. “Suggestions?”

“What d’you got?”

“Anything? Y’know, Netflix, don’t know if you heard of it?”

“Har har. Does it look like I can actually afford that?”

“You live at home, don’t you? You gotta have some money left over, right?”

Wynonna scoffed. “Phone bills, car insurance, Gus makes me pay rent, buying shit for work, random stuff, saving for stuff...I don’t make bank. Do you know how much shit costs? Like, in general?”

“I-” Mercedes bit her tongue. Literally, yes, she knew. She could see the price tag on things, she could see her bills. But it was the indifference with which she could look at those numbers, that it wasn’t really even her responsibility to deal with them. They didn’t mean anything. She couldn’t feel their weight.

“Point taken.”

“It’s okay. I relate to being generationally cursed. Only your curse is wealth,” Wynonna grinned. Mercedes rolled her eyes. This was not a hole she wanted to go down, especially since she knew Wynonna had every right to poke her. They both had their own family legacies to take care of whether they liked it or not.

“You seen Always Sunny?”

“Nah, s’it good?”

“Dude, Danny DeVito’s in season two.”

Wynonna shimmied closer to Mercedes, shoulder brushing against her ribcage. “Sold.”

Running her VPN (something Tucker insisted on and got pissed about when their parents said all of them had to share the account), Mercedes loaded up Netflix and settled into bed, balancing the laptop on her stomach, Wynonna moving closer still and holding her head up.

As predicted, Wynonna was into it. It was hard to not laugh at oblivious assholes. But when Wynonna’s responses became less frequent and enthusiastic, Mercedes realized Wynonna had fallen asleep, eyes snapped shut and curled up under the thick comforter. Disappointed, Mercedes sighed and closed her Mac, sliding out of the bed and into the living room to let Wynonna sleep. She probably needed it.

—

_hey im outside_

Mercedes squinted at the text. She wished Wynonna would just knock on her front door like everyone on Earth did. When Mercedes mentioned it to Wynonna, she explained she didn’t want to talk to Mercedes’ parents, or see Beth, or really do any sort of action that would result in social interaction. In retrospect, Mercedes figured it was anxiety, mostly—that and how she suspected Wynonna quietly felt herself an inconvenience, or otherwise not allowed anywhere. Though Wynonna couldn’t give two shits about authority, parental figures seemed to be a different story altogether. Even young Mercedes didn’t have to be a psychologist to know why.

When Mercedes opened the door, Wynonna crept out from around the house, underdressed for the winter and hands shoved deep into her jacket, cheeks cherry red from the wind.

“Parents home?” she asked.

“No.” Mercedes held the door wide to invite Wynonna in, Wynonna kicking her boots off and shoving them deep into the closet. Hiding them.

“I need to sleep,” Wynonna declared, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

Mercedes was baffled. “You walked all the way over here for a nap?”

“I can’t stand my new—them,” Wynonna said, voice hoarse and eyes dulled bloodshot from what couldn’t have just been the cold. “I just need a fucking nap.”

Any lingering bewilderment melted from Mercedes, the desperation in Wynonna’s voice making her understand. This was a situation that she was not equipped to handle. Sixteen was too young for this type of moral confusion. But that would have to be dealt with later; for now, Wynonna said she needed sleep, and she wasn’t going to deny her a basic human need. 

“I gotta work on my law stuff though,” said Mercedes, leading her upstairs to her room.

“Won’t bother me. I can kinda sleep through anything. Well...almost,” Wynonna shrugged, clutching onto the heavy wooden railing.

With Wynonna curled up in bed behind her, Mercedes attempted to plug away at her assignment to little success. The words on the screen might as well have been in wingdings. It was too hard to focus when Mercedes was so out of her depth, like a child listening to hushed, panicked whispers from elders. There were moments in life where Mercedes knew she was in something pivotal, that crucial realization that she was getting older. A click of epiphany; the ceasing rotation of the world, where Mercedes understood how much bigger it was than she.

Because it was easy to hear of things happening to the people she cared about when she was a safe distance away. An acknowledgement that it was happening but nothing more. Now she was in it. Now it was knocking on her door and sleeping behind her. Now it was duty. 

A flash of red and blue.

Her body reacted to it before she could formulate a thought, her heart plummeting to her guts and fear boiling. She rushed to the bed and shook Wynonna frantically.

“What the fuck happened?” she hissed, Wynonna confused, angry, then finally panicked as she saw the room phasing red-blue-red-blue.

“Nothing! I don’t-”

The doorbell rang.

“Wynonna,” Mercedes whispered. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” she said again, shying away from Mercedes to protect herself. Fuck. She was making this worse.

Mercedes tried to calm her voice. “Then why-”

The soft baritone of her father echoed up the stairs. “Mercedes? Come here a moment?”

“Y-yeah gimme a sec!” Mercedes called down, still looking at Wynonna for an answer.

“Mer, I promise—please, I wouldn’t drag you into something on purp-”

_“Mercedes! Now, please!”_

Out of time. Reaching for the door with a hand less confident than she wanted, Mercedes have one last look at Wynonna who was no longer there, but tucked under the bedsheets. It would’ve been adorable or even funny if Mercedes wasn’t so scared.

Nedley stood at the entrance. His hands were wrapped around his heavy belt, looking bored and relaxed as Mercedes approached him and her father, trying to look innocently curious.

“‘Cedes,” Nedley nodded curtly.

“Hello.” The side-eye from her father made her add, “Sheriff.”

“I’ll cut to the chase. Y’haven’t seen Wynonna Earp around, have you? Her guardians said she hasn’t shown up.”

A quiet, quick sigh of relief. Nothing horrible—or at least it didn’t seem that way. Now this was a different problem, two shitty options she had to pick the least shitty of, and fast. Lying to the police, she was pretty positive, was an incredibly dangerous, stupid move. On the other…

It was difficult to stomach how terrified Wynonna looked when she saw the lights, like experiencing a ghost of something familiar. There was the overwhelming desire to protect Wynonna from ever meeting it, and, selfishly and perhaps most pertinent, that throwing her to the dogs would be a betrayal of the worst kind. She wasn’t going to lose Wynonna to disloyalty.

“I figured since you two are...close?” Nedley said, as if asking for Mercedes to confirm an unbelievable lie, “I’d check here.”

“I dunno,” Mercedes found herself saying, her heart slamming against her ribs. Because the truth was that even if Wynonna had done something wrong, Mercedes couldn’t imagine a scenario that would make her hesitate to defend her. Unhealthy, maybe. Foolish. But that was what they were. 

“I haven’t seen her since lunch,” Mercedes continued, trying to sound the right amount of worried. “Sorry.”

Nedley seemed unconvinced. “She hasn’t texted? Messaged?”

“No, sir,” wow, Mercedes felt weird saying that, “Now I’m worried. I hope she’s okay.” Not technically a lie. She was worried and she _did_ hope Wynonna was okay.

The Sheriff nodded and sighed, annoyed and inconvenienced by the prospect of a continued search. “She’s probably fine. We’ll find her,” Nedley said, tipping his hat and bidding Mercedes and her father goodnight as the door shut behind him. Mercedes’ father looked down at his daughter from behind his glasses, a glare that she knew meant trouble.

“You know where she is.”

There was no point in lying about it. Mercedes dug her fingernails into her palms. “Yeah.”

She expected exasperation, something on the anger spectrum; but to her surprise, her father only sighed, pushing his glasses up with a frown. “You know what the right thing is.”

The doubt Mercedes expected to feel was absent as she unclenched her hands, back straightening, proud. “I just did it.”

In another surprising move, her father didn’t argue. Instead his face softened, still stern, but with a hint of admiration. “The consequences are yours to deal with.” He looked to the closet. “But she can’t stay here.”

“She can’t go back-”

“Mercedes,” her father said calmly. “She can stay the _night_. Come tomorrow, she needs to be gone.”

A rare act of mercy. It’s not as if her mother and father were cold and harsh; they simply preferred to stay out of matters while moralizing from afar, speaking of God or what the Bible said. Yet it was still confusing. 

“Thanks. Seriously. I’ll—we’ll figure it out. Thank you.” Mercedes dug her heels into the hardwood. “Hey...why are…” she didn’t know how to word _hey how come it seems like you have compassion_ in a way that wasn’t offensive. Her father shrugged.

“For I was hungry and you gave me food…”

Mercedes couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah. Alright. Got it.”

Her father only nodded and walked away to his study, the conversation ending abruptly, for which Mercedes was relieved. When she returned to her room Wynonna was peeking out from the blanket, pale and breaths uneven. Tense.

“You lied?”

Mercedes let tension billow out of her lungs with nervous laughter as she ran her fingers through her hair. Lying to cops? Fairly exhilarating. “Yeah. I did.”

Confused or disbelieving, Wynonna held the pillow closer to her stomach, focusing on the designs of the flower comforter. “I can’t go back there.”

Taking her place beside Wynonna, Mercedes so badly wanted to tell Wynonna he didn’t have to, that things would be okay. Instead she was conflicted, that drowning sensation of being in over her head returning to restrict the air. There weren’t any options. This was only a temporary reprieve. They were stalling the inevitable.

“I know, man. But…”

“I know.” Wynonna held the pillow tighter. “Maybe—I’ll call Uncle Curtis. Then...I don’t know.”

It was odd that Wynonna’s aunt and uncle hadn’t taken her in. She’d been cycled through the foster care system over and over with nothing coming of it. Why continue to let Wynonna suffer, an unstable constant that, surely, they must’ve known did more harm than good? Wouldn’t they want her and Waverly together? Wouldn’t taking away the most important person in Waverly’s life scar her too?

“Maybe it’s none of my business, but why not live with them?”

Wynonna shrugged. “They don’t want me.”

A disaffected resuscitation of fact that she’d forced herself to stop caring about long ago.

What could Mercedes even say?

“That sounds fucking awful.”

Wynonna didn’t answer. And how exactly was she supposed to respond?

* * *

Another unfamiliar ceiling.

Disoriented and afraid, Wynonna tried to remember how she came to fall asleep, mentally backtracking through the mist of confusion. Deep breaths. Mercedes.

The world began to make sense. Her body felt physical again. The bed was soft, her neck hurt from the bus ride, her back slick with sweat. Wynonna groaned and tossed her legs over the bedside and onto the shaggy rug, fumbling to find her duffle bag. Changing into sweatpants and an old Bikini Kill shirt, she made her way to the living room to see Mercedes on the couch.

“Rise and shine,” Mercedes said, not looking up from her phone.

“H’long was I out for?”

“Three hours.”

Tightening her lips, Wynonna flopped down on the heavy leather couch beside Mercedes, pretending to be interested in whatever was on TV. Some sitcom it looked like; she didn’t recognize the actors.

“It’s my friend’s birthday tonight. We’re invited.”

“We?”

“Yeah! They wanna meet you.”

Wynonna was skeptical. “Is your friend just being polite, or…”

“No really! They’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Uh oh.”

“No, bitch. It’s impossible not to talk about you. The shit we got up to...the kind of shit that only happens when there’s nothing else to do.”

The curse of small towns. Parties were fun in high school, mostly because they had to be, the desperation of needing something to stave off boredom. Now Wynonna couldn’t stand them, how juvenile and awkward they felt, where loneliness was highlighted especially when everyone was a stranger, their little cliques on the stairs, the couch, sitting on kitchen countertops. When it came to public drunkenness, Wynonna had graduated to Shorty’s, where she could shoot the shit with the eponymous man himself and not have to worry about bad smalltalk.

“Is this an I’m “asking” situation or actually asking?”

“We don’t have to go if you don’t want to. Just thought it’d be nice to meet people who...well. Who don’t know you. Like shit, practically no one knows what an Earp is. Out of towners, anyway.”

A point Wynonna hadn’t considered. The Earp name carried the worst type of weight, that of folk-tale lore and nostalgia for idyllic life on the prairies. American legend, Wynonna supposed, which was funny all things considered. Purgatory only had the Earp legacy going for it, both personal and historical. It’s not as if Wynonna felt compelled to live up to the name; rather, it was what was expected of her by everyone else, forcing her to care about how she was a complete failure to old Wyatt Earp’s good name. And in the anonymity that crowds brought, perhaps she could cut loose for once, in a real way.

After all, she only had five years left to live. In a manner of speaking. One last party before the end.

“Yeah! ‘Aight. Sure. Let’s do it.”

Mercedes wasn’t excited so much as relieved. “Cool! I’ll tell Riley—it’s their party.” Mercedes typed out a hurried reply. “Oh yeah, they/them be tee dubs.”

“What?”

“Like...pronouns?”

“Oh.” 

It’s not that Wynonna didn’t know about trans people or the whole non-binary thing. It’s that it never came up, or anything she’d heard of it was jokes in poor taste—regrettably, even from her own mouth. 

“Huh. Don’t see that in Purgatory.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s conservative hell? I mean shit, being queer is one thing but trans?” Mercedes shook her head. “Can’t be easy.”

Wynonna huffed. “You never used to care about this kind of stuff. Liberal arts electives paying off, huh?”

“Don’t be a dick.” Mercedes wasn’t amused. “And yeah, because I was an asshole.”

“Was?”

“Only to people who deserve it.” Mercedes gave Wynonna a playful shrug. “Look man. I never thought I’d have to care about all this. Then you meet people and you think.”

“About?”

“Just, stuff. How fucked everything is.”

“Your revelation is ‘things suck’?”

“More that things specifically suck for specific people.”

Wynonna laughed. “I could’ve told you that. I mean shit, you _saw_ it.”

“But you didn’t like talking about it.”

Wynonna grumbled. “What? I talked about it all the time.”

“Funny anecdotes, yeah. Otherwise it’s that patented move of ‘joke about it so you don’t have to confront how it makes you feel’ thing.”

“It’s not impressive for you to guess that I’m fucked up, Mer. Or that I love avoidance.”

Mercedes sighed. “Point is, I didn’t know—I _still_ don’t know. I thought it was relatively fine because you had this tough bitch attitude. Like you didn’t give a shit.”

The foolish naivety of her younger self. All Wynonna knew was that she was wrong somehow, bad, rotten, that god or whatever and whoever fucked up bad when he made her or something. The inevitability of another prison cot, another house she fucking hated. That these things were simply the routine of life, that the small, sharp shard of shame that bled her out was something she deserved. And she didn’t have to be a super genius to figure out why she turned to alcohol more than anything or anyone else. It was in her family tree. Like a curse.

Wynonna scratched at her wrist. “I think I thought I didn’t care. Or I tried not to.” Or tried to fake it ‘til she made it. Not a great job on that end.

“You didn’t deserve that. Everything.” Mercedes wasn’t holding her phone anymore.

“Do the crime do the time, right?” Wynonna said weakly.

“I’m not sure a scared twelve year old girl is doing a crime.”

“I killed my father,” Wynonna stated. “Pretty sure that’s a big no-no.”

“You didn’t mean to.”

That was the problem. That infernal, cursed gun with a hypocrite's name had a mind of its own. Wynonna didn’t know what would be worse: that she had misfired and killed her father, or that the gun sensed something deep inside of her and acted according to her darkest wishes. A preventable murder or a murder intended. Still a murderer all the same.

“I don’t want to talk about this.”

Mercedes’ lips tightened. “Yeah. Sorry. I don’t know how we got here.”

“Yeah. Not sure how talking about a party turned into how I’m a murderer.”

Mercedes held her tongue. “Well, it’ll be a fun party. You might even stick out the least. All arts kids. All one upping each other.”

Grateful for the topic change, Wynonna forced a laugh. “Man, you don’t hang out with anyone in your program, do you?”

“Fuck no. You know how many shitty white dudes tell you about their cool start-up or whatever the fuck? It’s almost not worth pretending to be interested for the D.”

“Almost,” Wynonna grinned.

“Almost.”

The tension still remained, the two of them falling into uneasy silence. Wynonna looked around for something to comment on, noticing something beside the TV with a thick, black cover on it, a thin layer of dust on top. Wynonna nodded towards it.

“Haven’t played for a while, huh?”

Mercedes looked to the keyboard. “When I’m drunk.”

Standing from the couch, WYnonna peeled away the dust cover from the keyboard, a heavy red Nord that Wynonna could tell was more expensive than it looked. She pressed the keys, the weight and action of them satisfying and realistic. It was a shame Mercedes didn’t play more. She was excellent at it, but Wynonna knew she lacked any real interest. From what she could remember, Mercedes only enjoyed playing one song.

“Hey. Can you still play To Zanarkand?” Wynonna pressed another silent key. “Like, right now?”

Considering for a moment, Mercedes placed herself in front of the keyboard and switched it on, positioning her fingers above the keys in a practiced, engrained formation that hadn’t left her. 

“I’m a little rusty.”

Her first chord was off; but she started over, her brows knit in concentration. An idle smile made its way to Wynonna’s lips. She appreciated a Philip Glass piece or one by a fancy dead guy in a powdered wig once in a while—she wasn’t completely uncultured—but this was something so much cooler. That, and how Mercedes learned it by ear with the sole purpose of showing off to Wynonna. The many afternoons playing on the outdated PS2, Mercedes by her side, asking questions about the mechanics of Final Fantasy X despite the fact she would never play it herself.

And soon the concentration faded from Mercedes’ face, replaced by a reverie of sorts, that soft glow focus that came from being carried away into something else. If this was her being rusty, Wynonna wondered what the song sounded like on a good day. The notes swelled, Mercedes’ tendons flaring at each pressed chord, softening when the song quieted again, letting the notes ring out before the sustain pedal was unceremoniously released, the soft thump a gunshot killing the noise.

“Man. That’s still so dope.” Wynonna wasn’t sure what to say. How do does one respond after a private performance?

Mercedes threw the dust cover back onto the keyboard like a discarded rag, flopping back onto the couch like nothing happened.

“When I look back, I’m kinda surprised you let me come over just to play the PS2.”

“That thing was ancient when I got it from Tucker. It wasn’t any use otherwise.” Mercedes shrugged. “It was fun. I’m bad at the whole gaming thing but watching you—watching was fun, I guess.” 

Hands wringing, Mercedes picked up her phone again, scrolling through Instagram before sighing and throwing the phone back down beside her. An uneasy busyness.

“I guess, like...when I think about high school, it’s not, ah...the greatest. But then I think about grinding for a hundred hours and it’s less shitty.” 

Something stopped Wynonna from outright thanking Mercedes. It felt corny, despite how gratitude was something she owed Mercedes a thousand times over. She swallowed it like acid reflux.

* * *

At some point Wynonna felt comfortable enough to let herself into the Gardner house, when she knew the routine and exact schedule of each member of the family, slipping in unnoticed to greet Mercedes in her room. This time the lights were off, Mercedes tucked into bed, awake.

“You sick? You didn’t text me.”

Usually Mercedes could hear the front door opening when Wynonna arrived. Not today. “Just feel like shit. Sorry.”

Wynonna say on the dust pink ottoman at the foot of the bed, looking to the green light of the computer tower, the only source of light in the dark bedroom. 

“Want me to leave?”

Silence.

“Do whatever.” 

Mercedes genuinely did not give a shit either way, and Wynonna’s presence reminded her of what time it was, how she had to start making something for Beth and Tucker to eat. And herself, probably. She should probably eat.

“Where’re you going?”

“Gotta make dinner,” Mercedes said, feeling the immense urge to cry of all things, that simply sliding out of bed was the greatest torture endured.

“Wait, Beth and Tucker can’t make their own food?”

“No. Beth would probably burn the house down, and Tucker would too...on purpose.” 

“They can’t make grilled cheese or some shit? Isn’t that like, a basic life skill?”

Mercedes didn’t have the energy to shit-talk her siblings, and almost not enough to give an unethusiastic shrug as she went for the door.

“Well. Good thing I can.” Wynonna stood up suddenly and pushed Mercedes back into bed with a surprised grunt.

“The fuck—no way. If they see you they’ll phone the damn cops.”

Mercedes could feel Wynonna’s smirk even in the dark. “Then I guess they won’t eat.”

A weary sigh from Mercedes. She wanted to argue, tell Wynonna that was an absolutely wild thing for her to do. But the opportunity to lay in bed and do whatever it was she was doing before Wynonna came was too tempting. Besides, there wasn’t a point in telling Wynonna what to do—or what _not_ to do as the case more often was. It’s not that Mercedes thought Wynonna was going to accidentally kill her siblings. But…

But what?

“I’ll cook then head out after.” Wynonna opened the door, letting a painful sliver of light shine through. “So go to sleep.”

“I can drive you ba-”

“Nope. Borrowed the truck. All good.”

The headache creeping behind Mercedes’ eyes stopped her from asking anything else.

“Thanks.”

Wynonna fiddled with the doorknob. 

“Yeah.” Her gaze lingered on Mercedes for a moment before shuffling to her bedside, giving her an awkward rub on the shoulder and brushing her red hair behind her ear. 

“Go to sleep,” she repeated quietly, moving to the door again and closing it quietly behind her.

Mercedes woke a few hours later, shaking off the numbness and checking her phone for the time. It took everything to haul her leaden body out of bed to look out the window to the driveway. There weren’t any tire tracks; only footprints in the snow, leading back towards town.

Liar.

With slightly more energy than what she started with, Mercedes slumped downstairs to analyze the damage, unwilling to believe the task had been done without someone losing a limb or two. Instead she was ashamed of her assumptions; the kitchen was in better shape than Mercedes had left it, a pan in the drying rack and the faint smell of lavender cleaner. A small gesture, anticipation of knowing what Mercedes wanted. An act of service.

Disbelieving, she ventured to Bethany’s room and knocked, not expecting Beth to answer. Mercedes opened the door after there wasn’t a response.

“Ever hear of privacy?” Beth sulked, not turning from her laptop to look at her big sister. There was an empty plate beside her with streaks of ketchup and a crust of a sandwich.

“So you ate?” 

“That was weird,” Beth whined. “ _She’s_ weird.”

If Beth wasn’t her little sister she would have chewed her out. “Well you’re fed, aren’t you?”

Beth finally turned around, her hand gripping the back of her chair and a scowl on her face. “I’m telling dad.”

“What? You’re telling on yourself because you’re lazy and can’t even put food in the microwave?”

Beth narrowed her eyes and jolted back to her laptop with a huff. “Get lost.”

Soon Mercedes was back in her room staring at a text from Wynonna.

_u good?_

Mercedes couldn’t keep her eyes open long enough for a reply.

* * *

Downtown was teeming with life, the cold winter doing nothing to discourage the need to party on a Thursday evening, full queues outside of clubs and swarms of taxis. Mercedes and Wynonna had just finished eating at Mercedes’ favourite Vietnamese place: a gigantic bowl of phở shared between them, brisket and raw beef with hoisin sauce, all washed down with a jackfruit shake for Mercedes and soda sữa hột gà for Wynonna. The whole meal was a rare treat. There wasn’t much in the way of non-white food in Purgatory, save for the one Chinese place and that weird restaurant that couldn’t decide on a theme, much less a culture. The perks of city life, Wynonna supposed. There was something nice about the busyness of it all, that she could slip away into a crowd and never be found again, the anonymity of a collective.

They turned down a side street of older houses and apartment buildings. 

“Almost there,” Mercedes said, noticing Wynonna bundling up. “Then we’ll get all warm and boozy.”

And maybe it was the sort of thoughtfulness that came with winter nights that had Wynonna pondering, the sort of camaraderie that came with sharing a good meal. An unexpected beautiful nostalgia for a time Wynonna didn’t think she’d ever look back on as halcyon days. The parties in cold, damp barns on the outskirts of Purgatory, Mercedes by her side, early twenties and so different now. Yet Wynonna felt stagnant and lost all at once, on the precipice of something new while the past tied her in place. 

And maybe that was why she was so committed to leaving everything behind, Purgatory, Alberta, Canada—far, far, far away and somewhere else. So drastic it might actually work. No name and no face. The anonymity of a new collective. But for now; a party. Mercedes by her once again.

“Can I just,” Wynonna said, jaw tensing, “can I know? Why you stuck around?”

Mercedes was caught off guard. “Where’d that come from?”

“Was thinking about parties.”

Mercedes understood. “You’re my best friend.” 

She said it with a casualness like it was the easiest, most simple truth in the world. There was something else in Mercedes’ softened voice, a small echo Wynonna heard because she was familiar with it too.

“You knew me. What I was. So what was it?”

“I dunno man. You see someone dumping vodka over a cut and they’re probably interesting.”

Wynonna laughed. “Yeah. That was...messy.”

“We were both pretty messy. Kinda impossible not to be in a place literally called Purgatory.” Mercedes dug her hands into her wool jacket. “Okay. My turn. Why me then?”

The reason was something Wynonna never thought about. It was a whole not wanting to look a gift horse in the mouth situation, or that if she spent too long contemplating it, it’d disappear. But it all went back to that same night, in a shitty 60s era basement with shag carpeting.

“You could’ve said anything about me. Willa, daddy, my record. Literally fucking anything. But you didn’t.”

They turned down another side street, their path dimly lit by the light radiating from the bungalows and three story apartments. Downtown seemed like another world, far away like it never belonged in this place.

“Anyone can take an easy shot,” Mercedes said. “To be honest? I thought what I said would hurt more.”

“You weren’t wrong. Accuracy wise and being called out like that.” And to think—nothing had changed since then. Still as empty.

“Willa was...it’s funny. I miss her sometimes. Or I’ll have these dreams and—” Mercedes clamped her lips.

“I’m not gonna crumble if you talk about her. It’s been what, ten years?” 

Ten fucking years. It felt like forever and yesterday at once. 

They arrived at a small apartment building, old, beige, and boxy, perfectly boring in its functionality. People lived here and that was it. No frills. Mercedes reached into her purse for a cigarette, Wynonna taking one for herself when silently offered. Smoking wasn’t something Wynonna did too often—one of those “if we’re at a party and I’m too drunk to care” types. While she wasn’t drunk, she figured proximity would do. The strange liminality of winter night made it seem like she was supposed to smoke, mellow in the silent melancholy of it all.

They leaned against the yellow and brown brick wall of the building, the light from behind the glass entrance door illuminating the snow beside them, the faint thud of music above them. Bringing the cigarette to her lips, Wynonna inhaled deeply and let the sweet smoke into her lungs, exhaling a sigh as the smoke sped off to the night sky.

“God. Beth and Tucker are annoying as fuck. But I can’t imagine losing them. To blame you for Willa and use it against you is just…” Mercedes ashed her cigarette onto the sparkling snow. “I hated how they made fun of you. I fucking hated it.”

 _Then why didn’t you help me?_ Wynonna wanted to retort, but her conscience quieted the question. Because high school was hell and sticking your ass out for someone was asking to be dragged down too. Cowardly, maybe—most self-preservation techniques were. Wynonna understood more than anyone. 

“I was pretty fucked up then. So.”

“Yeah, because your life was fucked up,” Mercedes countered. “Throw a grieving, traumatized kid in a psych ward for six months...jail, foster care? Yeah. No fucking wonder you had issues.”

It occurred to Wynonna how rarely people made excuses on her behalf. That people had failed her, that not everything was her fault, and not the other way around.

“I know you’re all tough and shit?” Mercedes said. “But sometimes I think about your life and wanna cry.”

“Wow. Thanks.”

“That’s not—” Mercedes lit another cigarette, “what I mean, is you’ve had the hardest fucking time in the world and none of those assholes had like, an iota of sympathy.”

A fire had lit behind Mercedes’ pale green eyes, sucking in nicotine at a rate that must’ve been giving her a headrush.

“I stuck around because—” she looked up to the branches of a skeletal tree, its branches glistening with ice.

“You...happened. And I don’t know if—I don’t know if it’s this weird like, something, this _thing_ that made me want to make sure you were in my life. Like you were supposed to...just…” Mercedes laughed at herself. 

“Fuck. I’m not even drunk yet and I’m getting all sentimental.”

Yet Wynonna was wrapped in Mercedes’ furor, a swelling in her solar plexus and engulfing her, the disbelief that anyone could have ever seen her, the worst version no less, and deemed she was worth something. Destined even. And such lofty ideas weren’t things Wynonna wanted to believe in. That somehow, someway, she could force herself out of some shitty weird wheel that proved otherwise. Because she of all people should know what it meant to be cursed by fate. No matter how much she clawed at it with blood between her nails, things happened because they simply did.

“Shit, if you wanna keep talking about me then hey,” Wynonna said, ultimately deflecting everything Mercedes had said. Something about gift horses and always open mouths.

“Don’t try and brush this off. I’m serious. You’re worth more than you give yourself credit for. You’ve been here and…” Mercedes took another drag. She couldn’t continue. 

“Mer, I haven’t done shit. It was always me coming over, sitting around and eating your food or playing on your fucking PS2 and you didn’t say shit about it. I’m…” It was Wynonna’s turn to nurse her cigarette. “I’m a fucking parasite. Like this, emotional vampire. Everyone who fucking knows me gets dragged down to my level.”

Mercedes shook her head. “Remember when...you know.” Mercedes looked to the ground, embarrassed. “I was having a shit time? When...you know.”

A punch to Wynonna’s stomach. Mercedes didn’t need to explain. Grade eleven, spring turning to summer, the rare heat of Purgatory rising. Mercedes wearing long sleeves, sweaters, uncomfortably boiling in Purg High with no air conditioning. How just that winter, Mercedes stopped going out. How, despite sleeping constantly, she looked dazed and half awake, staring at the corner of the classroom. Wynonna had been there before. Not the sleeping part—she was famously awful at that particular luxury. It was everything else. 

Then was the uncomfortable question. Wynonna regretted her lack of tact when Mercedes raised her voice, an elastic band snapping inside of Wynonna’s head at the volume, the force. The force in which she rolled up Mercedes’ sleeve for her and saw what she expected and feared.

Everything was a blur after that. More yelling, defensive and scared, riddled with the guilt and shame of being discovered. Wynonna had never seen Mercedes cry before. But then, in that world-halting moment of realization and terror, it all came out at once, a mountain crumbling at the weight of itself. 

Then was the uncomfortable rigidity of the school stairwell and how it smelled wrong, Mercedes’ head buried in Wynonna’s shoulder while Wynonna held her close. For all Wynonna had touched and been touched, it was never anything like this. A connection she wished didn’t have to come from a moment borne of confusion and despair.

“Yeah,” Wynonna said. “Yeah.”

Mercedes exhaled, uneasy. “You keep saying all this shit about how awful you are. That you’re selfish and take and—that’s not true. I needed someone.” 

Mercedes shrugged. “And it was you.” 

Wynonna wished she was drunk. The words might’ve come easier then. As it was they were trapped in her throat like a dam, unwilling and impossible to break through. 

Mercedes leaned her head back against the wall, eyes closed in focus or meditation or to remain in the present, half-spent cigarette dangling between her fingers. It was that eerie quiet that only snow could bring, a blanket that muffled everything in such a way where Wynonna was made aware of how the passive, ambient hum of the world was absent. And Wynonna, as present as Mercedes was trying to feel, couldn’t stop looking at her, that strange dissociation where Wynonna couldn’t believe she was extant, that Mercedes was too. Physically, sure, but gravitationally as well, a pull that had Wynonna falling towards Mercedes and taking her lipstick stained cigarette from her mouth.

There weren’t any protests. Mercedes tilted her head in bated curiosity, Wynonna placing her hands on the wall.

“Wynonna.”

There was a question in there maybe, swallowed by every syllable of her name so soft and wondrous and better than anything the world could come up with. A musical reverence. A slow hand on Wynonna’s hip.

“What…” 

Wynonna searched for an explanation that could be said aloud, something that wouldn't betray her. Instead she opted for the lesser treachery. 

“I don’t know.”

And because she didn’t know she leaned her head closer, an inching caution so unlike herself, Mercedes closing the distance with sudden lips crashing. The sudden inevitability of it all, the inevitability of Mercedes’ cold hand sliding underneath Wynonna’s thin t-shirt, the shiver of temperature or relief and tongues met. The pulling of Mercedes’ collar, that thick wool jacket scratching Wynonna’s skin, the movement of her thigh between Mercedes’ legs. Her sharp inhale breathing the air from Wynonna’s lungs. 

Making out against the wall outside of a party. What could be more them than that?

Wynonna pulled back with shaking hands, another thing so unlike her, Mercedes smiling smugly and wiping away her smeared lipstick with the back of her hand.

“Fuck the party.”

“We’re right here, you don’t wanna-” her false apprehension was sliced by Mercedes’ hand crawling further, thumb inching underneath the band of her pushup bra and tracing circles below her chestbone. 

“You didn’t wanna come anyways.” 

“Well,” Wynonna said, pressing her thigh harder into Mercedes, her hands wandering lower. “I do now. In a different way.”

Mercedes chuckled. “Oh, you will.”

She pushed Wynonna off of her with a cheshire grin, hurrying off to the bus stop and leaving Wynonna to trudge through the snow, working to keep pace.

"For the record?" Mercedes said, swirling around and jay-walking backwards. "I'm _really_ good at it."

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
